


Jehan's Roses

by notmyrevolution



Series: Permanent [9]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-02
Updated: 2013-09-02
Packaged: 2017-12-25 09:53:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/951702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notmyrevolution/pseuds/notmyrevolution
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’s a tattoo artist, all that means is he’s the one holding the gun, why the hell should he say no when a young waif of a man comes in wanting a tattoo of bright, colourful roses?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Jehan's Roses

Most people come to Grantaire for blackwork. It makes sense, people say he’s known for it, and Courfeyrac dedicates his time and energy into filling the website with photos that have very little colour and way too much linework. Grantaire himself isn’t picky. He’s a tattoo artist, all that means is he’s the one holding the gun, why the hell should he say no when a young waif of a man comes in wanting a tattoo of bright, colourful roses?

Which is why Grantaire invited him back, and why he’s currently leaning over the counter of Grantaire’s shop, filling in paperwork, signing his name and ticking all the right boxes.

“I thought the boyfriend was coming,” Grantaire comments, leaning his elbows against the counter as he watches the guy write. He looks down at the ID in his hands, and raising an eyebrow. “Jean Prouvaire? ...not Jehan?”

“Enjolras is coming, he’s just running a bit late,” Jehan says, then frowns slightly. “I prefer being called Jehan, is that going to be a problem?”

Grantaire glances up, and hands the ID back with a lazy grin as he speaks, “You really think my parents named me Grantaire?”

There’s only one person, outside of his parents, who knows his name, who found out the hard way when they were arrested together for starting a brawl and the officer had read his birth name aloud. One person, who had turned to Grantaire and said _You’re fucking kidding me, that’s your name?_ Grantaire understands why names are something to be chosen, not just accepted.

The bell chimes as the door opens, and Grantaire looks from Jehan’s happy smile to the tall, blonde, marble-faced Adonis that has just walked in. Grantaire figures, by the way the guy presses a quick kiss to Jehan’s lips that this must be the boyfriend. Grantaire can definitely see why they’re together. He can also see--

"You're not allowed in here with that," Grantaire says, pointing at a finger at the cup of coffee he's holding.

"But I'm drinking it," The guy says, turning to look at Grantaire and twisting his lips disdainfully.

"And I’m not losing my fucking license because _you’re_ violating the health regs while I’m tattooing," Grantaire counters instantly, bristling. "So either the coffee goes or _you_ go."

Enjolras scowls and glances briefly at Jehan, as if he’s weighing up arguing versus supporting his boyfriend’s endevors. The scowl twists and deepens, but Enjolras nods and steps back out of the store to finish his coffee. He looks pathetic standing alone on the sidewalk in the snow, so much that Grantaire help but laugh.

"So that's the boyfriend, huh?" He asks Jehan, turning back to him.

"Yes, that's Enjolras," Jehan says, glancing out the window as well. He's smiling, though Grantaire doesn’t know why. He’s not exactly an expert on romance, but _seriously_?

"Well, each to their own, I suppose," Grantaire says with a shrug, and leads Jehan through to the chair, gesturing for him to take a seat.

"He's a bit..." Jehan starts, then sighs and laughs. "He _is_ really nice. People get the wrong idea about him."

"I wonder why," Grantaire mutters beneath his breath, but doesn't comment anymore. He has a good rapport with Jehan, but not enough that he’s going to make further sarcastic observations about his boyfriend. Not while he's a paying customer.

"Shirt off," Grantaire continues, pulling on a pair of gloves. He's got his sketch ready, everything set out and they're almost good to go. Grantaire could do this bit in his sleep, it’s a basic routine he’s honed through the years. Jehan strips obediently, folding his shirt up and setting it aside neatly. Grantaire steps over to him, swabbing the disinfectant over Jehan's side and apologising as Jehan's stomach sucks in at the coldness. Routine.

"I think I'm nervous," Jehan confesses, and Grantaire laughs, twirling a disposable razor between his fingers.

"Fucking bullshit you are," he says, laughing, and continues talking as he runs the razor along Jehan's ribcage. "Jesus, my first tattoo I was pissing myself, I was so fucking drunk. The guy had a home kit, it was in his basement and I’m honestly surprised I didn’t catch anything."

“What was your first one?” Jehan asks curiously, holding his arm up and watching as Grantaire cleans his skin again.

“I’ve got these lyrics on my hip. I made some pretty stupid decisions when I was drunk, but I dunno, I kinda got attached to this one. Enough that I had it fixed up when I realised how shit it was,” Grantaire confesses, laughing as he moves back to drop the razor in a bin. He rolls his stool back over to the table, picking up the stencil, and comes back to apply it to Jehan’s skin.

“Check it, make sure I’ve put it where you want it,” Grantaire says, pointing to a mirror against the wall. Jehan hops to his feet, and looks at himself curiously, twisting a few different ways.

“I think that’s perfect,” he says finally, smiling wide at Grantaire. He’s rocking on the balls of his feet, all nervous energy, and Grantaire finds him infectious, finds himself smiling again as he gestures to the chair, for Jehan to take a seat.

“Can I ask what it means? Your lyrics?” Jehan says, perching himself on the edge of the chair. Grantaire can see his feet tapping along to the music playing in the background, the carefully selected playlist that Grantaire put together one day at 3AM when the basis for his choice was _yeah, this sounds good._

“You can, but I almost guarantee I’m not gonna answer truthfully,” Grantaire says, snapping on a new pair of gloves. He likes the black ones better. He feels less like a surgeon. Jehan smiles, and nods in understanding, and Grantaire feels the appreciation bloom in his chest. He needs to stop making friends with his customers.

The bell chimes, then Enjolras appears a moment later, hands empty of coffee. He glances at Grantaire, and Grantaire can’t tell if he’s scowling or if that’s just his natural expression.

“Can I come in, now?” Enjolras asks, tone perfectly balanced between genuine curiosity and mocking.

Grantaire points at a stool next to the chair, and doesn’t hide the sarcasm from his voice when he says, “You can sit there, so you’re out of my way.”

Grantaire watches him take a seat, can hear him humming along to the song currently filtering over the shop’s speakers, and _Christ, really, do they really share a taste in music?_

He swallows the rising irritation, and turns back to Jehan.

“Down you go, get as comfortable as you can, let me know if you want a break, feel free to talk, etcetera,” Grantaire says, checking off the points on his fingers with a grin, before he picks up his gun. Jehan reaches out, laces his fingers through Enjolras’s, and Grantaire watches them share a smile. He sighs, presses his foot down a few tips, listening to the familiar, comforting buzz, and thinks of something else.

\--

He’s nearly finished the outline, which is good, because then he won’t have to stick to the stencil and that’s always easier. Jehan’s hardly moved, his breathing controlled and the only sign of discomfort is when he stretches his arm once it’s fallen asleep. Grantaire has seen the toughest men cry when getting their ribs done,but Jehan hardly even flinches, even when he gets close to the bone. Grantaire's impressed, he swore like mad when his was done.

Grantaire is, surprisingly, really bad at pain. Jehan, obviously, is not.

Enjolras has been mostly quiet the whole time, and Grantaire can’t say he really minds, because every time he _does_ talk, it’s about politics or activism or some other crap. When it combines with his righteous, idealistic attitude, it makes Grantaire grit his teeth and fight back the urge to argue and counter each stupid point he makes. He’s constantly scrolling through his phone, focused, and only ever looking up when Jehan squeezes his hand to get his attention or if there’s been _an important update on the bill in the senate, Jehan, there’s a chance it might pass_. Except he pauses now and leans over, watching Grantaire’s movements and studying the design he’s putting on Jehan’s skin.

“Don’t you think the lines should be thicker?” Enjolras asks, peering at Grantaire’s work with a critical eye. Grantaire doesn’t look up, he doesn’t rise to the bait, he just breathes out sharply through his nose. He _won’t_ stab this guy in the eye with the needle. Absolutely not. Jehan’s obviously fond of him, and just because he’s _telling Grantaire, the tattooist with an art degree, how to create his fucking artwork--_

"Enjolras," Jehan says, squeezing his hand. His tone is completely casual, not even a warning, but Enjolras's mouth snaps closed anyway. Grantaire doesn't look up, just quirks his mouth slightly, smiling to himself. He can't help but think how well Jehan would get along with his friends, if given the chance.

\--

The bell jangles again, an hour later, and Grantaire swears, vocally, because now is _not_ the time for him to have a walk in, it really isn’t, but...

“Just a minute!” He calls out, wiping Jehan down and straightening up, frowning.

“You tattooing, asshole?” A voice calls back, and Grantaire sags in relief because he knows that voice, he's heard it countless times on countless nights, and that means he won’t have to get up.

“Yeah, I’ve got Jehan’s session!” He calls to the front of the shop. Grantaire hears a brief laugh, a laugh that warms something inside him, and the door open again.

“I’ll come back at closing, then!” the voice says, and Grantaire can hear the grin, can picture it in his mind, tiger-like and wild, full of promises and threats. The door closes, and Grantaire presses down with his foot, restarting the gun, turning to continue his work. He's not smiling.

"Who was that?" Jehan asks, sing-song, with a far too knowing look on his face.

"A customer," Grantaire answers simply, focusing intently on the way he’s inking one rose. He hopes Jehan doesn’t laugh, because then he’ll have to pause, and he’s not really up for being laughed at.

"A customer that comes back after hours?" Jehan counters, gently.

"He's a very good customer," Grantaire responds again, flicking his eyes up. Jehan is smiling, and Grantaire can’t help but smile in return. Jehan is infectious, he’s poetry and flowers in spring, he’s everything _good_ in the world and even someone as cynical as Grantaire can’t resist that.

Jehan falls quiet.

Grantaire doesn’t mind.

The thing is, Grantaire knows that some people lose themselves in the tattooing process. Some people see it as a zen-like state, they focus on the buzzing of the gun and in indescribable feeling of the ink becoming permanent on their skin. He’s heard the sensation called scratching, burning, like an itch you can’t get to, like being stabbed _._ He’s seen people nearly cry, he’s seen people laugh because it tickles, he’s seen people hardly wince, and he’s seen all the ones in between. He knows people plug in their iPod and feel the process and don’t realise it’s over until it’s several hours later.

Grantaire knows this, he’s been through it himself, he _understands_. Grantaire also knows the other side of it, the side he does now as he creates lines and shading. He knows what it feels like to get lost in your art, to forget everything around you except for the gun in your hand and the person beneath your needle. To know a person has complete trust in you, even just for an hour.

So when Jehan’s chest hitches, but he doesn’t speak, Grantaire knows to take a break.

 

**Author's Note:**

> [Tumblr!](http://notmyrevolution.tumblr.com)


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